North River Read Online Free PDF

bursts of laughter, except from the politicians.
    “Spaghetti,” Delaney said, pointing at the bowls.
    “Bagetti,” the boy said.
    With his left hand, he tried to twirl the slippery strands of spaghetti on his fork, but they kept falling, and Delaney leaned over and cut them into smaller pieces. The boy stabbed at them with his fork and then grabbed a few strands and started chewing. He made a face — what is this taste? — and then decided he liked it, and tried again with the fork, and this time succeeded. Delaney smiled.
    “Bagetti,” the boy said. “No co’flake.”
    “Right.
Spaghetti.”
    Chairs scraped on the floor, and Delaney turned. Knocko Carmody was approaching him, smiling. The others from his table were standing now too.
    “Does this kid have a union card?” he said, his voice a growl but his eyes twinkling. The other three stayed back, as respectful as lieutenants to a general.
    “He’s coming to the hiring hall this summer, Knocko.”
    “Just bring him around. He gets a card, just showing up.”
    At the hard sound of Knocko’s voice, Carlito stopped eating but then quickly resumed.
    “Who’s this?” Knocko whispered.
    “My grandson.”
    “Grace’s kid?”
    “Yeah.”
    “And where’s the beautiful Grace?”
    “Away.”
    He said the word as if naming something permanent.
    “Shit,” Knocko said.
    “Yeah.”
    They’d known each other too long to invent a story.
    “You need some help, you know where to find me.”
    “Thanks, Knocko.”
    Out he went, into the snowy street. He was flanked by two of the men, and the third walked directly behind him. There was a clatter of dishes as the waiter cleared their table. Delaney glanced at Carlito. All the spaghetti was gone from his bowl. Some was on the checkered tablecloth, some on the bib or the floor. Delaney lifted a portion of his own pasta and placed it in the boy’s bowl. He sipped his wine and finished eating. Angela returned with a wet cloth and began cleaning the boy’s face and hands.
    “This kid don’t fool around,” she said.
    “He’s an eater.”
    “He’s gonna be pretty big,” she said. “Look at them feet.”
    “With any luck.”
    Carlito must have sensed that they were talking about him, but he said nothing.
    “I got something else for you,” she said to the boy.
    She waved at a waiter, made a spooning gesture. The waiter shouted something into the kitchen, then hurried over to take away the pasta dishes.
    “You’re gonna need help,” Angela said, her face grave. “A lot of help.”
    “I know.”
    “You can’t go running out on house calls carrying a three-year-old with you.”
    “I know.” He laughed. “But you know what I really need first? I need a cheese box. The boy can’t reach the bowl when he stands in front of it.”
    Angela laughed.
    “I don’t have one here, and the cheese store is closed. Wait’ll tomorrow.”
    The waiter arrived with two dishes of vanilla ice cream and two spoons. The boy smiled. This was food he had seen before his journey to New York.
    “You’re gonna need a woman,” Angela said.
    He carried the boy part of the way on his shoulders, leaning into the wind, fighting to keep his balance, but bumping the boy up and down in a kind of dance. Carlito laughed in delight. Then he stopped laughing, and Delaney slipped him off his shoulders, saw that his eyes were closed, and held him close for the rest of the journey west on Horatio Street. A taxi pulled up in the center of the snow-packed street. A well-dressed man and woman stepped out. The Cottrells from next door. Both were Delaney’s age. From 93 Horatio. His neighbors. They didn’t look at him. They never did. Not since that summer afternoon four years earlier, when their son was knocked down by a speeding car driven by a drunk. At the sound of screeching brakes, Delaney rushed outside. He did what he could for the boy while an ambulance slogged through traffic from St. Vincent’s. But it was too late. The boy was